


Little Round

by TheStageManager



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cuddles, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Melida/Daan, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, Padawan Qui-Gon Jinn, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25706380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStageManager/pseuds/TheStageManager
Summary: It occurred to Qui-Gon Jinn, all at once, that perhaps the Obi-Wan who had returned to the Jedi Temple was not the same Obi-Wan who had left for Melida/Daan, so many months ago.- - -Set in an AU where Obi-Wan Kenobi and Qui-Gon Jinn are both trained by Dooku.
Relationships: Dooku & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Dooku & Qui-Gon Jinn, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 40
Kudos: 389





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kurtssingh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kurtssingh/gifts), [PIRANHA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PIRANHA/gifts).



> Inspired by the poem “Little Round” by Li-Young Lee

_ My fool asks: Do the years spell a path to later  _

_ be remembered? Who's there to read them back? _

_ My death says: One bird knows the hour and suffers _

_ to house its millstone-weight as song. _

_ My night watchman lies down _

_ in a room by the sea _

_ and hears the water telling, _

_ out of a thousand mouths, _

_ the story behind his mother’s sleeping face. _

_ My eternity shrugs and yawns: _

_ Let the stars knit and fold _

_ inside their numbered rooms. When night asks _

_ who I am I answer, Your own, and am not lonely. _

_ My loneliness, my sleepless darling _

_ reminds herself _

_ the fruit that falls increases _

_ at the speed of the body rising to meet it. _

_ And my child? He sleeps and sleeps. _

_ And my mother? She divides _

_ the rice, today’s portion from tomorrow’s, _

_ tomorrow’s from ever after. _

_ And my father. He faces me and rows _

_ toward what he can’t see. _

_ And my God. _

_What have I done with my God?  
_

\- “Little Round” by Li-Young Lee

* * *

  
Master Dooku knew who Obi-Wan Kenobi was: he was a bright, kind, obedient padawan, if not sometimes prone to passionate bouts of anger. He knew the boy was special and would have happily taken him as an apprentice, had he not already had a padawan of his own—sixteen-year-old Qui-Gon Jinn. Nevertheless, Dooku continued to monitor young Obi-Wan’s progress even after he had been taken on as a padawan.

There was something strange about the boy—a certain light that fascinated Dooku endlessly. There was something tying the master and the boy together, though Dooku couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

Which is perhaps why Dooku became so agitated upon learning that the boy had been left behind on Melida/Daan, in the middle of a war zone no less.

“Trust in the Force you must,” Master Yoda had chastised him, when he brought the issue before the aged master.

“I trust the Force is very much displeased by reckless child endangerment,” Dooku had merely quipped. “We should seek to rectify this immediately,”

“Attached to this boy you have become,” Master Yoda had observed. “A padawan you already have, Master Dooku. Seek not to neglect young Padawan Jinn, hm?”

Dooku had merely pressed his lips into a thin line and accepted the answer as it had come. He did not bring the issue up again and had no intention to speak of it further... until, one day, Obi-Wan returned home.

He was thin and haggard and quiet and wore a wild look in his eyes—a forbidden grief, a tangled trauma that most folks simply couldn’t understand.

Dooku himself couldn’t understand it. Perhaps he never would.

Jedi were not made for war, and certainly not padawans. He had hoped that the boy would have escaped the violent chaos, but it seemed the boy had not been so fortunate.

Still, Dooku did not speak of it—though he must’ve worn a sour expression all day long because, when he and Qui-Gon sat down at the small table in their small apartment for supper, Qui-Gon only managed five or six bites before he set his fork aside and said mildly,

“When I was smaller, I used to make funny faces while trying my master my katas. Do you recall?”

Dooku’s eyes flickered you and narrowed ever so slightly. “I do,”

“You found them distasteful,” Qui-Gon continued, clasping his enormous hands together and tucking them underneath his chin. “You always said my face would ‘freeze like that’. Aren’t you afraid yours will do the same? You’ve been wearing that expression all day,”

Qui-Gon was the picture of innocence: all big eyes and long lashes. Dooku merely rolled his eyes, grown infinitely weary in a matter of seconds, as if his padawan had the capacity to age him by thousands of years with his dry wit alone.

“No, I am not. I am, however, afraid I am going to be completely grey before I turn thirty-five, thanks to you,” Dooku huffed, running an exasperated hand through his hair.

Qui-Gon, ever the cheeky bastard, merely smirked—though how he was still able to maintain such an air of innocence, Dooku would never understand. “Not to worry, Master. I hear Senator Nav’dol has a thing for the ‘salt and pepper look’,”

Dooku visibly shuddered. “Please, padawan, for my sake, do _not_ speak of that she-devil this home. I would like our humble apartment to be a place of _peace,”_

“She asked me to give you her regards the last time I passed through the Senate building,”

“I’m sure she did,”

“She even blew a kiss for you, I thought that was rather charming,”

“Padawan, _enough,”_

Qui-Gon dipped his head peaceably, knowing not to push his master any further. “Yes Master, my apologies,”

-

Qui-Gon’s eyes flickered between his own, partially picked-at plate, the untouched plate across the table, and his master’s furrowed face. He managed a few more moments in blessed silence (trying to ignore the way his skin itched and the incessant desire to tap his feet or bounce his legs) before he stuffed another two forkfuls of food in his mouth and kept right on with his questions, unable to satiate his fixation for answers:

“Is there something on your mind, Master? You haven’t touched your plate at all and you’ve still got that _look_ ,” the young man said, gesturing vaguely to his own face.

“No, padawan, I am just... thinking,”

This answer was remarkably unsatisfactory to the ever curious Qui-Gon Jinn, who figured he already knew what was on his Master’s mind. Obi-Wan’s sudden return to the Temple was the only possible explanation—Qui-Gon knew very well that his master found the boy fascinating (he had brought up his desires to train them both on more than one occasion—usually in jest, but it still painted a very clear picture in Qui-Gon’s mind. “A remarkable challenge it would be,” the master had said, ever boundless in his quest for achieving the unachievable.)

“I spoke with Obi-Wan today. Did you know he’s returned to the Order?” Qui-Gon asked carefully.

Yes, _obviously_ , Master Dooku knew about the boy’s return, he wasn’t blind.

A quiet, intrusive thought passed through Qui-Gon’s maelstrom-stirred mind like a particularly obnoxious fly: perhaps his master would find such an question offensive? The young man dismissed the thought with confidence. Master Dooku was not a man to jump to conclusions.

“ _Returning_ to the Order would imply he had first _left_ it,” Dooku said, voice clipped with irritation.

“Yes, but they say he betrayed-“

“There is a difference, padawan, in betrayal and abandonment,” Dooku cut in firmly, voice tight and cold.

Qui-Gon ducked his head once more and took a few more bites, allowing heavy silence to drift between the master and the apprentice. Such a pause was necessary, it was a theatrical calculation on Qui-Gon’s behalf, who knew his next statement would need to hit hard in order to strike a deep enough chord with his master to spur him on to action:

“His master has renounced him,”

Dooku’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing into cold slits, not unlike a snake. “Why?” he demanded.

“Obi-Wan says it is because he has proven he can no longer be trusted,”

For several moments, Dooku was very still. Slowly, he reached for his napkin and, despite not having eaten anything, he dabbed at his lips as if to sweep away any remaining crumbs from his dark beard. Then, he carefully folded the napkin, placed it on the table, and rose to his feet.

His movements were cold and calculated. He moved with sort of silent, controlled, icy rage that sent thrills down Qui-Gon’s spine. Every movement in his body was smooth and fluid, as if the act of standing required no effort, as if, instead of muscles he had pistons and gears like a droid—perfectly efficient, meticulously calculated. Qui-Gon hoped that he, too, would someday be that graceful.

Master Dooku’s posture and body language told a sweeping story of polite hellfire and righteous indignation. Qui-Gon couldn’t help the excitement that boiled in his stomach like butterflies and fireworks: Master Dooku was the greatest Jedi there ever was and he was going to go and kick somebody’s ass.

At some point, very early on in their partnership, Qui-Gon might’ve found his master frightening and unapproachable—this display of calculated rage certainly would’ve turned his younger self stiff with fear. In the ensuing years, Qui-Gon had quickly come to learn that, yes, Master Dooku was very much deserving of the fear he so often inspired in others. He often reminded Qui-Gon of a mother nexu: viciously protective over his pup, and anyone else he deemed worthy of his protection.

However, with his padawan, thought sometimes strict and stern and boring, he was as harmless as a bogling.

“And I presume the Council is meeting to decide his fate?” Dooku asked, his voice soft as snow and colder than midnight on Hoth.

“Yes, Master,” Qui-Gon said.

“And did he tell you where he’ll be spending the night?”

That question caught the padawan off guard. “Yes, Master. He... mentioned being sent back to the Initiate dorms?”

Dooku’s jaw tightened. “His master can’t abide the thought of him spending even one night in their quarters?” he grumbled to himself and Qui-Gon recoiled.

“I’m sure that’s not how it is,” the young man defended and Dooku hesitated, softening just around the edges as he met his padawan’s eyes.

“... yes. I’m sure you’re right. Qui-Gon, I’m going to go have a word with my former master. Will you find young Padawan Kenobi and being him to our quarters?”

That gave Qui-Gon pause. He felt his feet grow heavy and leaden, willful against the idea of moving. “Master?” he asked, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his cloak as he had seen Master Dooku do so many times. “Are you really so intent to train him?”

Dooku tucked his hands behind his back in one swift, easy movement. “For now, yes. I can’t imagine this will be a permanent situation, however there are no masters seeking padawans at this time, and I won’t have him sent off to become of farmer or an explorer when his true purpose is to be a knight. I won’t allow such talent to be wasted. Now, off you go. With any luck I will return before the midnight bell tolls,” Dooku said, turning on his heel, as Qui-Gon bowed and offered a soft, ‘yes, Master.’

However, he stopped just before he reached the door and twisted around to give Qui-Gon a sly smile. “Besides. It will be quite the challenge, I should think,”

And off he went.

The Council will be displeased!” Qui-Gon reminded, calling out after his master’s fleeting form. If he heard his master mutter a quiet, ‘the Council can kiss my ass’ beneath his breath, he wouldn’t tell a soul.

Alone at last, Qui-Gon allowed his innocent, schooled expression turn devilish at the thought of displeasing the Council. The taking of two padawans was an old rule, more strictly adhered to than any other in the Code. The thought of breaking such an ancient, sacred law gave him an untethered burst of excitement.

And even more exciting was the thought of being brother-padawans with one of his closest friends. Though Obi-Wan was nearly two and a half whole years Qui-Gon’s junior, he had never failed to weasel into all of Qui-Gon’s social circles as an initiate, often following around the older boy like a little lost duckling.

After Dooku had selected Qui-Gon as his apprentice, their relationship had become rather strained by separation—however, Qui-Gon had always found the time to seek the younger boy out whenever he could.

As Obi-Wan’s age-out date had approached, he had become anxious—afraid of never becoming a padawan, afraid he would never see Qui-Gon again—but the older boy had been confident, and reassured him confidently: “Obi-Wan Kenobi, you are meant to be a Jedi Knight. You can feel it, can’t you?”

After the harrowing horrors of Bandomeer, the happiest day of Qui-Gon’s life had been when Obi-Wan had returned to the Jedi Temple, hair proudly tied up in a neat padawan braid.

Unfortunately, it had only taken a few months for everything to go pear-shaped, and suddenly, Obi-Wan Kenobi was gone again: this time, lost somewhere in the middle of a war zone.

The Temple rumor mill was quick and brutal. It wasn’t long before stories of Obi-Wan Kenobi began circulating through the ranks of the Jedi. Qui-Gon couldn’t stomach any of them. They spoke of betray and cruelty on Obi-Wan’s part. They talked of broken oaths and shorn braids and rejection and abandonment, while Qui-Gon spent his lunch hours at the table he used to share with his oldest friend, wondering what had happened to him to make him give up on his dream of becoming a Jedi.

“Hey, Obi?” Qui-Gon called out as he stepped outside onto the ornate plaza. He didn’t bother checking the Initiate Dorms, he didn’t need too. Obi-Wan wasn’t asleep, he was restless. And whenever he was restless, he went out to the plaza to be close to the stars he loved so dearly.

Qui-Gon crosses the ornate tiles briskly, moving towards a cedar tree tucked away in the corner. That was Obi’s cedar tree, Qui-Gon knew it well enough. For as much as the kid liked to be clean, he never had any qualms climbing the tree, his fingers sticky with sap and bits of bark.

_“Doesn’t it bother you? Your hands sticking for days?”_ Qui-Gon had asked once. _  
_

_“Not really. Besides, I like the way it smells,”_ had been Obi-Wan’s brief answer. _  
_

_“And what about the needles? They don’t bother you?”_

_“The needles are the best part. Nobody ever climbs this tree because of the needles. I’m the only one. Just me and the tree and the stars and the Force. And... you too, I guess. But I don’t mind it when you’re here,”_

_“_ Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon called once more. Again, he received no response. However, as he neared the tree, he heard something shift weight and watched a few dry needles drift towards the ground.

“Obi, I know you’re up there,” Qui-Gon huffed, moving a hefty branch out of the way so he could move closer to the trunk. Holding a hand over his eyes to guard his face from any stray, falling needles, he glanced up, searching the dark branches for his friend.

A pair of bright, owlish eyes stared back down at him, wild and untamed with an emotion that Qui-Gon could never hope to convey.

It occurred to him, all at once, that the Obi-Wan that had returned to the Jedi Temple was, perhaps, not the same Obi-Wan who had left.

“Hey, I see you up there,” Qui-Gon huffed, wrapping one large hand around the nearest bough and hoisting himself up, as if he was climbing the steady rungs of a ladder. “Why didn’t you answer me?”

“Because I don’t like the sound of your voice and I didn’t want to encourage you,” Obi-Wan quipped and Qui-Gon nearly fell out of the tree, he was so overcome with relief.

“It’s good to see you’re still the same cheeky, brat form you’ve always been. When we talked earlier, I was worried somebody’d replaced my friend with a decent, civilized human being,”

He was almost giddy as he looked up and watched Obi-Wan narrow his eyes. Had he been younger, perhaps he would’ve stuck his tongue out.

“Tell me, Qui-Gon, did you pick up any more pathetic life forms while I was gone? Something to replace me like, say, a tooka? Or perhaps a gundark kit?”

“Kell dragon, actually. I wanted something ugly and dumb and smelly, and a lot smaller than it thinks it is,” Qui-Gon said evenly as he hoisted himself up onto Obi-Wan’s branch.

“I am _not_ small,” Obi-Wan shot, venomously, right on cue. “Everybody, _everybody_ says I’m big for my age,”

“Not that big,” Qui-Gon said with a shrug, and ruffled Obi-Wan’s hair, which had gotten far longer than Qui-Gon had ever seen it. It was fluffier than it had been when the two had talked earlier in the day—he must’ve had the chance to catch a shower.

“Yeah, maybe I’m not as big as you, but that’s only because you’re _freakish_ ,”

Qui-Gon could’ve sworn he saw Obi-Wan’s lips curl into a smile.

“Do you want know where my master is right now?” Qui-Gon found himself blurting out, eyes wide with excitement.

Obi-Wan groaned. “Do I? You only ever give me _that_ look when you’re about to do something stupid or against the rules,”

“He’s talking to the Council. He wants to take you on as his padawan,” Qui-Gon said. His heart sank when Obi-Wan’s only reaction was a slow, lethargic blink.

“Why? I can’t be his padawan. He’s got you. Unless you’ve secretly been knighted at some point in the last several months?” Obi-Wan asked with such a nihilistic hopelessness, Qui-Gon almost wanted lost faith in the idea himself.

“He wants to train both of us,”

“He can’t have two padawans, you know that. Qui-Gon... I appreciate this, I do—you trying to cheer me up. And please tell Master Dooku that I am ever grateful for his consideration but it simply isn’t meant to be,” Obi-Wan averted his gaze and tilted his head back up to the stars.

The skin of his face sagged beneath his eyes, sallow and lose, while simultaneously clinging to the sharp curve of his jawbone as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

“What was it like out there?” Qui-Gon asked, and regretted it the second the words tumbled out of his lips.

Obi-Wan’s eyes slid shut and, for a moment, Qui-Gon could sense that his friend was very far away, perhaps on a different planet entirely.

“You’ve been on a lot of missions with Master Dooku, right?” he asked.

Qui-Gon frowned. “Yeah. We’ve been going on more and more since I turned sixteen and I got my piloting bead,” he explained, only the slightest hint of a brag in his tone.

“Do any of those missions every go poorly? Do you ever have to fight?” Obi-Wan’s voice was becoming softer and softer, the letters seemingly growing longer and longer, as if the the words were an animal hide, stretched out on a wooden frame for tanning.

“Sure, all the time,” Qui-Gon answered, his heart sinking.

“Have you ever killed anybody?” Obi-Wan’s voice was hardly audible, firm with an unexpected resolve.

“No, of course not,” Qui-Gon answered, wrinkling his nose in mild horror. The Living Force was bright and moving around him at all times. The idea of taking a life, of snuffing out the light that burned within another... it made Qui-Gon’s stomach churn. No doubt, it would happen someday—it happened to every Jedi someday. Still, it was a fact that never sat right with him, the idea of a peacekeeper taking the life of another..

Obi-Wan’s eyes cracked open once more, slow and painful, like the spines of ancient books, dusty and unkempt, stories of forgotten cultures told in abandoned languages—everything faded away and lost to time.

Qui-Gon could see the stars in their infinitude reflected in Obi-Wan’s misty eyes. He could number them, name them, and he watched as Obi-Wan’s pupils flickered back and forth as if searching fm the void for some unknowable answers, sifting through the stars for something he _didn’t_ know the name of, something that _couldn’t_ be named.

“I have,”

Qui-Gon was a curious padawan. He had always been that way—almost on the move, always asking questions, always searching and studying, seeking to find answers to those questions that had been deemed ‘unsolvable’. He wanted to know everything, he wanted to understand all things.

Except, maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe he doesn’t want to know how it feels to take a life, what it’s like to watch somebody die, how it feels to outlive somebody you love. Maybe he doesn’t want to know what it’s like to starve, to suffer, to _survive._

Maybe there were things, blessed thing, sacred things, cursed burning things, better left unknown.

The things that Obi-Wan had seen. The things that Obi-Wan knew.

Maybe it was better not to know.

“What was it like?” Qui-Gon asked.

“It feels like I’ll never be clean again,” Obi-Wan choked out but didn’t cry because, after what he had seen, something about crying was forbidden.

And Qui-Gon wished hadn’t asked; he wished he didn’t know.

He took Obi-Wan by the hand and smiled brilliantly, as if he could change away all the darkness with kindness alone.

“You smell just fine to me,” he said and Obi-Wan chuckled—the sort of chuckle that might erupt into hapless sobs at any moment.

“C’mon. Master Dooku wanted you to spend the night in our quarters. You can sleep in my bed with me, just like old times,”

Obi-Wan wrinkled his nose. “I never did that,”

“Oh, yes you did. You used to sneak out of your dorms and into mine all the time,” Qui-Gon said, still smiling softly as he tilted his head to one side, trying to get Obi-Wan to meet his eyes.

“No, no, I distinctly recall it was the other way around. You snuck out of _your_ dorms because you would get nightmares,”

“I’ve never had a nightmare in my life, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Qui-Gon was quick to retaliate. “You, however, used to get them nightly,”

“I did not,” Obi-Wan huffed.

“You did so,”

“I did not!”

“You did! I remember! You slept with a light because you were afraid of the dark!”

Suddenly, Obi-Wan’s eyes blew open wide and brimmed over with tears that never fell. He turned back out to the sky and closed his eyes as if in reverent prayer.

“No,” he said softly. “No, that’s not true. I was never afraid of the dark. I always loved the stars too much,”

Qui-Gon wrapped an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders and pulled him close. He would never understand Obi-Wan’s love of the stars—he would never understand that they had been the only constant thing on Melida/Daan, that he would spend his nights wide awake, watching the stars and taking comfort in the fact that same stars hung over the Jedi Temple; it was all the same sky, no matter how far away it felt.

He would never understand Obi-Wan’s love of the stars, but he loved Obi-Wan all the more for it, and he hoped that maybe, someday, he would be able to see what Obi-Wan saw, that someday he might understand, he would be able to appreciate the stars the way Obi-Wan appreciate them.

Perhaps someday, he could teach Obi-Wan that, even without the stars, he wasn’t alone.

Carefully the two boys climbed down from the tree, hands tacky with pine sap, and clothes prickly with needles, and returned to the quarters Qui-Gon shared with Master Dooku. Together, they made a cup of tea—going through the whole, long ritual, because Obi-Wan needed some normalcy, some boring, steadying tradition—and he let Obi-Wan put as much sugar as he wanted in his cup and didn’t say a word about it, didn’t make fun of him at all.

Then, they retired to bed, Obi-Wan borrowing a pair of Qui-Gon’s sleep clothes for the night, squishing into Qui-Gon’s little bed, just like they used to, back when they were both so much smaller, and so much more naive.

Obi-Wan fell asleep with his face pressed against Qui-Gon’s chest and hands knotted tight into the fabric of the older boy’s shirt, seeking comfort and warmth a familiarity he hadn’t had in a long time.

Feeling the gentle rise and fall of Obi-Wan’s chest, Qui-Gon pulled the heavy quilt up over them, taking special care to tuck it around the smaller boy’s shoulders. He smoothed back his hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead, before taking a strand of his fluffy, ginger hair and weaving it into the small beginning of a new padawan braid.

“You’ll see,” he whispered softly. “You just wait and see,”

-

“Dooku, no,” Yoda said firmly. “Forbid this, the Code does,”

“This is absurd. I will take the boy and train him myself,” Dooku said, crossing his arms and actively resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Two padawans you may not have,” Yoda warned and Dooku’s frown only deepened.

“Then what is to be done with him? Is he to be cast off to toil on a farm for the rest of his life? No. The boy needs to be taught and I will teach him,” Dooku said, waving an arm with an air of finality.

“Master Dooku, made the decision has been. Impossible your request is,” Yoda countered, sounding equally exasperated.

“ _Master_ ,” Dooku began, and he would’ve sound almost pleading if he hadn’t also been so adamant. “I am hardly suggesting that this be a permanent solution. However, until another master is willing to step forward and claim him, _this_ is our best option. He is meant to be a Jedi. Allow him to stay with myself and padawan Jinn for the time being, a few months at most. He is strong in the Force. His talents would be wasted on Bandomeer,”

Yoda pressed a clawed hand against his forehead and sighed. “Much to discuss, there will be. Allow it, I will. For now only. Tomorrow, discuss the boy’s future, we will once more, hm? Meditate now, I must,”

Dooku pulled his hand together into the sleeves of his robe and nodded. “Ver well Master. Good night,”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Kurtssingh for their amazing art of Duckling Obi, Untitled Goose Qui, and Papa bear Dooku! Look at how sweet they are!

Check out Kurtssingh's Tumblr blog: <https://kurtssingh.tumblr.com/>

* * *

After their conversation in the cedar tree, Obi-Wan never spoke of Melida/Daan ever again. If asked about it, either by Qui-Gon, Master Dooku, or the Council, he simply said it “wasn’t his place to speak about it” and that was that. Not another word could be pried out of the boy.

Qui-Gon was just fine to let bygones be bygones. If Obi-Wan didn’t want to talk about it, who was he to disagree?

A second bed was pressed into Qui-Gon’s room, and Obi-Wan kept all of his things tightly pressed into one corner of the room, as if he wished to take up as little space as possible. That, however, didn’t stop him from climbing into Qui-Gon’s bed every night. Again, it was another thing Obi-Wan didn’t seem to ever want to talk about, so Qui-Gon never asked.

Even then, the kid didn’t sleep much. However, the ever darkening bags under his eyes never seemed to stop him from working hard. Dooku found himself impressed by the padawan’s sheer grit and determination. Still, it didn’t do much to quell the worry that so constantly tugged at him when he met Obi-Wan’s weary eyes.

Dooku wasn’t one for needless praises. Not to say that he didn’t think they weren’t necessary, but he believed they only ought to be doled out when _earned,_ otherwise they lose their sincerity.

However, this philosophy began to change when he saw how hard Obi-Wan tended to be on himself. War had turned him into a proficient fighter—quick and nimble and ever vigilant. He was quite adept in his first Master’s preferred form: Form II, Makashi. His precision and fancy footwork lent itself well to the Form. However, Form II seemed to lack the _flair_ that Obi-Wan so preferred, and Dooku suspected that Obi-Wan’s natural agility and control, as well as preferences for defense rather than offense would make him naturally suited for Form III, Soresu. However, wanting to challenge him, he insisted on schooling the boy in Form IV, Ataru, as Qui-Gon was already learning the form.

However, it quickly became apparent that Obi-Wan lacked in patience when it comes to his own ability to learn. That’s not to say that Obi-Wan was a slow learner, not by any means. However, he was notoriously hard on himself, working himself to the brink of exhaustion in his desperation to achieve perfection.

That is not a behavior conducive to a learning environment—Dooku needed to rectify that. However, he was wise enough (or perhaps observant enough) to recognize that scolding the boy would only serve to further internalize his belief of inadequacy.

(Dooku found himself cursing that former master of Obi-Wan’s more and more with every passing day.)

“Obi-Wan, stay. I think we ought to have a discussion,” Dooku said as Qui-Gon scampered off to go and make mischief. Upon hearing these words, Qui-Gon hesitated but the door, but Dooku merely scowled and directed Qui-Gon away with a wave of his hand.

Obi-Wan shifted uncomfortably. “Have I done something wrong, Master?” he asked.

Dooku frowned. “Yes and no,” he said and, upon seeing the child wilt, instructed, “Wait there while I fetch the kettle—this is hardly a discussion to be had without tea and biscuits,”

Obi-Wan blinked owlishly, taken aback by the request. “Tea and biscuits?” he echoed, his voice soft with disbelief.

“Of course,” Dooku said without turning around as he gathered the necessary items: a clay pot, two delicate teacups, a plateful of biscuits.

“Let me help,” Obi-Wan rose to his feet and swiftly moved forward to take some of the items out of his Master’s hands and take them to the table.

Dooku scowled, trying to ward the boy away—this was a task he could do himself—but the boy was too fast. The plate and teacups were foisted from his hands and set down on the table. Obi-Wan was quick to return to his seat, cowering almost sheepishly under Dooku’s hard gaze.

The tea was poured in silence. Dooku brought his cup to his lips and inhaled, closing his eyes to take in the familiar earthy, spiced scent. Eyes still closed, he took a small sip of the hot liquid, savoring the flavor on his tongue, enjoying the heat that radiated from the delicate teacup and into his hands. When he cracked his eyes open, he say Obi-Wan doing the same, watching his Master intensely and following along closely as if he were learning a kata and not drinking tea. He could sense a flare of disgust from Obi-Wan’s side of the bond as the bitter liquid hit his tongue, but the padawan made no move for the bowl of sugar. Dooku quirked an eyebrow and pushed the bowl closer to the boy.

“It’s only sugar, padawan. You needn’t treat it with such disdain,” Though he was only teasing, his voice was carefully controlled, almost cold. Obi-Wan’s eyes flickered up to meet his, perhaps searching for meaning, and Dooku’s lips quirked upwards into a small smile—a gentle gesture of reassurance. He pushed the bowl a little closer and Obi-Wan, relieved, bowed his head.

“Thank you, Master,” he said softly, carefully shoveling two spoonful’s of sugar into his tea, as well as a neatly poured splash of cream.

Dooku watched, with politely schooled affection, as the boy took another sip of his tea and absolutely _reveled_ in it. They continued their tea-time in silence until both cups were mostly drained and another round was poured.

“You wished to speak with me, Master?” Obi-Wan asked, watching carefully as Dooku so effortlessly poured the stained, steaming liquid into their cups with a grace and efficiency Obi-Wan hoped he, too, would one day possess.

“I did,” Dooku said. “I have concerns about your behavior, Padawan,”

He watched as Obi-Wan stiffened and, in a placating gesture, nudged the plate of biscuits closer to his student.

“You have displayed a lack of patience and a penitence towards frustration when confronted with failure,” Dooku said, fixing his gaze on his student. He was somewhat dismayed when Obi-Wan’s eyes fell.

“Yes, Master. I will... I will be better,” he said softly.

Dooku frowned. “You... have nothing to say about the matter? You do not wish to defend yourself?”

Obi-Wan’s head flicked back upwards and, for a moment, he almost looked aghast. “No, Master. I wish to take this rebuke with grace,”

Dooku’s frown only seemed to deepen, his brows knitting together in a way that made Obi-Wan squirm. “Obi-Wan, this is not a rebuke,”

The padawan was silent for a long time, his face devoid of any expression as he processed this new information. “I... no?” he asked, needlessly wiping his hands on his napkin before simply holding it and gripping it tight.

“No,” Dooku assured, allowed his own expression to soften. “You have very little tolerance towards your own shortcomings, I merely wish to know why that is,”

Obi-Wan released his hold on the napkin and instead gripped the bottom of his tunic, fixing his eyes on his lap. “I... must become better,” he said simply.

“This is true. And you _will_ improve. You are clever and hardworking I have faith that you will excel in our training; you have already surpassed my expectations many times. However, self-punishment is not a viable method of motivation. It is not the Jedi way,” He watched Obi-Wan chew on his lip, seemingly unconvinced. “Obi-Wan,” Dooku began, switching tactics. “Someday you will be the master and you will have a student of your own. When that time comes, and your student struggles in his studies or his katas, will you punish him for his failings? Will you yell at him and berate him?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened. “No, certainly not!” he exclaimed.

“Then why do you treat yourself in such away?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flickered away and he clenched his jaw. The silence stretched on for several moments and, when it became clear that the boy had no intention of answering, the Master tucked his hands into his sleeves and prompted, somewhat gruffly: “Speak, Padawan,”

Obi-Wan’s hands were twisted up in the fabric of his tunic so tightly that his fingers were starting to hurt, Dooku could sense the dull pain across their fledgling bond.

“Obi-Wan,” Dooku prompted again, this time more firmly.

Saw

“Because... I... sometimes I feel I deserve it,” the padawan squeaked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Dooku’s expression fell. He had a sneaking suspicion the cause was rooted somewhere in self-deprecation, however, he was surprised by the way his heart ached at such a vulnerable admission. He exhaled, reaching out into the Force for guidance, releasing his anger towards the boy’s former master. Needing time to think, to plan his next course of action, he rose to his feet and cleared the table in silence, leaving only the biscuits behind. Obi-Wan hunched in on himself further and further the longer the silence stretched on.

“You are disappointed in me,” Obi-Wan observed softly, voice muffled by his arms.

Dooku returned to the table and carefully tucked his hands into his sleeves, though he didn’t return to his seat. “Obi-Wan, I am _not,”_ he said with firmness and conviction. “Padawan, come here,” he said.

Painstakingly slowly, the boy’s shoulders unfurled and he slowly unwound himself. He rose to his feet and stood before his Master, eyes averted.

Dooku placed one hand on the boy’s shoulder and the other beneath his chin, tilting his padawan’s head up towards his own.

“I am _not_ disappointed in you,” Dooku repeated, his words soft and his expression kind. “You have hardly been my student for more than a week, but in that time, you have made me very proud. You are a hard worker, diligent, intelligent, studious, and determined. You are loyal and compassionate. I am very happy to call you my padawan,”

Carefully, he released his hold on the boy and Obi-Wan’s head fell once more, his brows knit together tightly as he struggled to process this information.

“I know... you are not fond of speaking about your time on Melida/Daan,” Dooku began once more, clearing his throat. He watched with some dismay, as Obi-Wan almost seemed to shy away, as if he physically wanted to abandon the conversation. Dooku returned his hand to Obi-Wan’s shoulder, just to make sure he didn’t flee. “And this, I believe, is a normal thing after experiencing trauma. However, the things you have seen and done—what you feel—cannot here pushed aside and should not be bottled up. I think it would be wise to schedule regular session with a mind healer,”

“Master!” Obi-Wan protested, but Dooku wasn’t hearing it.

“Padawan, this is not a punishment,” Dooku said firmly, tightening his hold on his padawan’s shoulder. “You are hurting. I know you have a particular dislike for _healing—“_ Obi-Wan blushed at that. “—but I must insist on this. Your performance in our lessons has no weight on my decision, you are worth more to me than the sum of your parts. I merely wish to see you happy,” Carefully, he released Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

Obi-Wan swallowed thickly and hesitated a moment before throwing his arms around his Master’s waist. “Thank you, Master,” he said softly.

Dooku stiffened and tried not to feel too uncomfortable about this sudden hug. He patted the boy on the back somewhat awkwardly. However, when Obi-Wan didn’t release him, he sighed heavily and, somewhat resigned, returned the hug (trying, once again, to ignore the rising affection that swelled in his chest.)

-

“He’s going to make me see a mindhealer,” Obi-Wan said, wrinkling his nose as the ground became damper and damper as he followed Qui-Gon further and further into the arboretum.

“That’s good. I think it’ll be good for you,” Qui-Gon mused, eyes scanning the ground.

Obi-Wan scowled. “No it won’t, it’s going to be _terrible._ They’re going to make me talk about things,”

“I think talking about things is good!”

Obi-Wan crosses his arms and huffed. “Not always. Not about this. I don’t want to talk about this,”

“Well, why not?” Qui-Gon asked as the muddy ground became even soggier, the mud and clay squelching with every step he took.

“Because it just... I don’t know. Every time I think about it, it makes me feel sick. I just... I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t like feeling that way. I just what to forget it. Why doesn’t anyone understand that?” Obi-Wan grumbled, his frown deepening as his boots sunk deeper and deeper into the sticky mud. “Qui-Gon, where are we _going_?” he demanded.

He felt Qui-Gon’s amusement drift lazily across their new brother-padawan bond (which was an entirely _wizard_ concept in and of itself) and immediately felt his stomach drop. His hands felt to his side, his head rolled back and he groaned in exasperation. “Qui-Gon, where are we going!” he demanded.

“Oh… didn’t I tell you?” Qui-Gon asked, all too innocently. Hitting people for being stupid was most certainly against the Jedi Code, but _damn_ if Obi-Wan wasn’t tempted.

“You told me we were going out to the Flower Beds,” Obi-Wan ground out, gritting his teeth. “This is _not_ the way to the Flower Beds,”

Qui-Gon merely shrugged. “Yeah-huh it is. Maybe it’s just a new way? Did you ever think of that Obi-Wan? Huh? Did you?”

Obi-Wan stepped forward and his leg was immediately swallowed up in a pit of mud. He gasped, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt the mud weaseling into the space between his boot and his pantleg. “Jinn!” he shouted, trying to tug his leg out of hole, but it just wouldn’t budge. “Get me out of here!”

“You can do it!” Qui-Gon encouraged and, if looks could kill, the older padawan would’ve keeled over dead when Obi-Wan scowled at him. However, instead of dying (like Obi-Wan would’ve _liked_ ) he merely grinned. “Use the Force, padawan Kenobi,”

“That is inappropriate use of the Force,” Obi-Wan spat like a particularly enraged kitten and Qui-Gon’s face immediately twisted up in confused irritation.

“What? Not it’s not. You’re stuck! Why would that be inappropriate use of the Force?” he demanded.

“Because I don’t _need_ to use it! You’re right here to help me out!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, extending his arms. “So help me out,”

Qui-Gon considered this for a moment, then smiled amicably. “No thanks,”

“Qui-Gon!”

“I think you can get out just fine on your own,”

Obi-Wan ground his teeth and tugged on his leg once more. It made a sort of _“glorp”_ sound, and a little bit of mud flung out and splattered against Obi-Wan’s tunic (much to his great chagrin) but otherwise, he remained stuck. “Qui-Gon!” he shouted again, except this time his voice was quavering with desperation.

“Use the Force!” Qui-Gon protested, growing equally exasperated.

“No! I can’t- I can’t, it’s…” he trailed off and squeezed his eyes shut. “I hate you. I hate you so much,” he whined, bending forward and placing his hands on the muddy ground as leverage as he slowly twisted his leg out of the mud pit. He hated the way the mud squelched between his fingers and coated his palms. He hated the feeling of the mud clinging to his leg. It was in his boots now, he could feel it. It was in his boots and staining his pants and it was so _improper._ Then, just as he was almost free, he shifted weight to pry his foot out and his hands slid forward. Immediately, he lost his balance and collapsed into the mud, which coated his tunic, his neck and chin, seeping into the sleeves of his cloak, and splattered against his face and hair.

He _screeched._

“Qui-Gon!” he shouted as the aforementioned padawan burst into a fit of giggles. Obi-Wan, miserable and full of hate and rage (honestly he could’ve fallen right then and there), scrambled to his feet and frantically began scraping the mud off of his face and clothing. “Stop laughing!” he shouted. “Master Dooku is going to _kill_ me,” he mourned, prying his lightsaber off of his belt and shaking it to get some of the mud off of it. Mournfully, he clipped it back on and carefully peeled off his soiled cloak. “The Quartermaster is going to kill me,” he mourned, trying to neatly fold up the muddy cloak before tucking it under his arm.

“Obi-Wan, you look _great,”_ Qui-Gon teased. “Like a real, civilized, dignified Jedi. A _proper_ Jedi,” This quip was met with a faceful of mud, as Obi-Wan scrapped a ball of it off of his tunic and hurled it at Qui-Gon with frightening precision. “ _Hey!”_ Qui-Gon yelped.

“Yeah! And now you look like a proper Jedi too,” Obi-Wan sneered. “At the very least, you look _way_ better than you did before,”

Qui-Gon wrinkled his nose and scrapped the mud off of his face, wiping his hands on his tunic and pants.

“NO!” Obi-Wan shouted, immediately repulsed. “What are you doing, don’t wipe it on your pants!”

“C’mere, I’ll just wipe it on you, then,” Qui-Gon retaliated and Obi-Wan merely scowled.

“ _Flower Beds my ass,”_ he grumbled softly to himself and, wanting desperately to clean up and get the mud off of his hands and face and out of his hair, he turned around, clearly intent on returning to the Temple.

“Hey! Hey! Wait, where are you going?” Qui-Gon asked.

“Me?” Obi-Wan asked. “Oh, I’m just headed off to Senate Building to have a cup of tea with the Chancellor. Where do you think I’m going?” he demanded and Qui-Gon struggled forward, flinging his legs out comically to avoid getting trapped in the mud.

“No, no, no, no, Obi you can’t go yet, I still have something I want to show you!” Qui-Gon exclaimed, catching Obi-Wan’s muddy wrist in his hand.

“What, the _Flower Beds_?” Obi-Wan sneered. “No thanks,”

Qui-Gon groaned. “Okay, okay, so maybe I lied about the Flower Beds. But I didn’t think you’d come if I told you were we were going,”

“And where are we going?”

Qui-Gon shuffled his feet and grinned sheepishly. “The Pond,”

“No! I hate the Pond!” Obi-Wan exclaimed.

“See! I told you, you wouldn’t have come!”

“Yeah, you’re right, now let me go, I want to take a shower!” Obi-Wan practically whined, trying to weasel his hand out of Qui-Gon’s, but Qui-Gon was surprisingly strong and his hands were _huge._

“Obi-Wan please? You’re already covered in mud. It’ll be quick, I promise. And you’ll like it,” Qui-Gon plead, but Obi-Wan remained steadfast.

“No.”

Defeated, Qui-Gon released his hand. “Okay… Okay. You can go,” he said, and Obi-Wan frowned.

“What’s the catch?” he asked.

Qui-Gon shrugged. “No catch. You don’t want to go, so you don’t have to,” he said simply.

Obi-Wan felt a sudden churning guilt boiling in the pit of his stomach. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then stomped his foot in frustration when he remembered that his hands were covered in mud, and he realized he’d just smeared it all over his face.

“Fine,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Fine. Just… go. Just… lets hurry and _please_ no more mud puddles,” Obi-Wan begged.

“No more mud puddles,” Qui-Gon promised, and wrapped and arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders. Obi-Wan sighed quietly and leaned into his touch—it was a curious thing he’d been doing ever since his return from Melida/Daan. It made Qui-Gon’s heart twist in a way he didn’t understand. What had happened to the younger padawan on that planet that had made him so desperate for physical affection?

The pair remained relatively quiet the rest of the way to the Pond—or, as Obi-Wan liked to call it, the Swamp. It was hardly a Pond, after all. It was more like a muddy collection of dirty, standing water. It smelled like fish and algae and Obi-Wan was very much not a fan. In fact, he wrinkled his nose in disgust as they neared the dirty water.

Of course, since Melida/Daan, there were many, many reasons why Obi-Wan didn’t like swamps and bodies of standing, dirty water. They reminded him too much of- But luckily, Qui-Gon led him away from the vile body of water and towards a fallen tree in a drier area of the clearing.

“Over here,” Qui-Gon said. He took a hold of Obi-Wan’s hand and the smaller boy squeezed it tight, as if it were a lifeline. Qui-Gon, perhaps hearing the way Obi-Wan’s heart was hammering, intertwined his fingers with his friend’s. Obi-Wan’s shoulders dropped, and some of the tension seemed to leech from him.

As they neared the felled tree, Obi-Wan heard a cacophony of tiny mewling and immediately knew they were headed towards a nest. He couldn’t help the smile that lit up across his face—he had a soft spot in his heart for baby things.

A black and white loth-cath, presumably the mother of the mewling kits, stuck her head out from the den and quirked her ears. She fixed her eyes in the direction of the two boys then hissed. Then, she sniffed the air and, seemingly recognizing the scent, emerged from her den and wrapped herself around Qui-Gon’s legs, purring like a ship engine.

Obi-Wan bent to scratch the tooka behind the ears and, he must’ve moved too quickly, because she backed away and hissed again before immediately changing her mind and accepting the head scratches amicably.

“Her name is Bep. Think Dooku will let me keep her?” Qui-Gon asked, flashing as grin as he sat down against the log, still holding onto Obi-Wan’s hand.

Obi-Wan sat down as well and scooted close, snorting derisively. “Dooku? No way,” he said, then bent over, trying to peer into the den, desperate for a glimpse of the tooka kittens. Qui-Gon, however, pushed him backwards.

“Just be patient,” he said.

Obi-Wan scowled and opened his mouth to protest, but Qui-Gon was quick to shush him. The tooka, Bep, returned to her den and, after a moment, emerged with a teeny-tiny all-black kitten. She placed the little bundle in Qui-Gon’s lap before returning to her den and emerging once more with another kitten, this one mostly white with the occasional black splotch. This one also went into Qui-Gon’s lap. The next kitten, white and orange, went to Obi-Wan. The one after that, black and white and orange, also went to Obi-Wan. The final kitten, another solid black one, went to Qui-Gon. Then with all five mewling kittens carefully tucked away in the laps of the two padawans, Bep pranced away, off to hunt.

“Looks like we’re on babysitting duty,” Qui-Gon said, flashing a grin at Obi-Wan as the tiny, squeaking kittens attempted to climb up his tunic.

Obi-Wan, however, couldn’t ignore the way his stomach was twisting itself up in knots. His fingers tightened around Qui-Gon’s, seeking reassurance. “She’s just going to leave them?” he asked, trying not to sound as affronted or as sick as he felt at the thought.

Qui-Gon narrowed his eyes, scooting just a bit closer to Obi-Wan until they were both pressed together. “She’s coming back,” he assured, his eyes shining bright with an unnamed worry that Obi-Wan couldn’t bear to see. He didn’t want to worry him. “She’s just out stretching her legs,”

“But how can she just trust us like this?”

Qui-Gon flashed another brilliant grin. “Well, she trusts me because I’ve been coming out here and feeding her everyday for, like, six months,”

Obi-Wan’s brows knit together. “Where do you get the food? Does Master Dooku really let you go out into town all that much?” he asked and Qui-Gon laughed.

“Oh, no, no, no. Definitely not. I usually just take it from the Temple Mess Hall,”

Obi-Wan’s eyes blew open wide for a moment, before he scowled and bumped into Qui-Gon’s shoulder. One of the kittens, who had been attempting to climb up to Qui-Gon’s shoulder, tumbled back into Qui-Gon’s lap and hissed indignantly at the offense.

“Qui-Gon, that’s stealing!” Obi-Wan scolded.

“We all share it anyways, it’s not stealing!”

“It is so stealing! That food is for everybody to eat, you can’t just take it to feed wild animals,” Obi-Wan protested. “Ow!” he exclaimed, when one of the kittens suddenly, attacked his hand with itty-bitty claws and teeth that were surprisingly sharp. Turning his attention to the kitten, he freed his hand and stroked it gently. “Hey,” he said softly. “Be nice,”

“They should’ve put you to work in the creche,” Qui-Gon snorted.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Obi-Wan mused, somewhat distracted by the two happy, squeaking kittens clambering all over his lap.

“How about this, next time I raid the Temple kitchen, you can come with me and scold me and try to talk me out of it,” Qui-Gon said.

Obi-Wan lifted his head and scowled. “You’re just trying to make me your accomplice. I don’t want to be complicit in your theft,”

Qui-Gon tipped his head back and laughed. “You’re such a stick in the mud. Literally,” he teased, which earned him yet another murderous glare. However, Obi-Wan didn’t respond. Qui-Gon exhaled and gave his friend an affectionate nudge. “I think she trusts you because she can just sense that you’re a good person,” he assured softly, circling back to the original topic.

Obi-Wan sighed and almost seemed to wilt, as if his bones had suddenly grown ancient and gnarled like centuries-old trees. He rested his head on Qui-Gon’s shoulder, going as far as to hide his eyes against the clean fabric of Qui-Gon’s tunic.

Truth be told, he didn’t feel like a good person. Most of the time, he just felt empty and hollow and useless. He knew it wasn’t a fair word to use—the things Master Dooku had told him held weight. He wouldn’t call his own padawan useless or hollow. He wouldn’t call the struggling little kittens in his lap useless or hollow. So why did it feel so deserved?

Qui-Gon rested his head against Obi-Wan’s. “You are a good person, you know. I promise you, you are,” he said softly.

“Then why do I feel so awful all the time?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Because you’re all twisted up inside,” Qui-Gon said. “You went through something hard and traumatic… and sometimes it’s so hard to understand why those things happen, it’s probably just easier to blame yourself,”

One of the kittens, the orange and white one, nudged against Obi-Wan’s hand, demanded to be petted again. “It wasn’t that bad… I don’t really have any right to complain,” he said softly.

Qui-Gon snorted. “Banthakark,” he growled, and carefully pulled his hand out of Obi-Wan’s.

“Hey, w-wait!” Obi-Wan’s exclaimed, fingers curling around Qui-Gon’s, eyes wide and frightened and oh, so young. However, he was quick to school himself and ducked his head. “I… I apologize,” he muttered sheepishly, releasing Qui-Gon’s hand, but the older boy didn’t let go. He rethreaded his fingers through Obi-Wan’s and held the smaller boy’s hand against his chest.

“It’s alright, I don’t mind. I’m not going anywhere. See?” he assured. “Close your eyes, you can feel my heart beating. I’m right here, I’m real, I’m alive,”

“I know that,” Obi-Wan spat, but he mostly just sounded deflated and embarrassed. He tried to tug his hand away, but Qui-Gon held it fast.

“Do you?”

Obi-Wan swallowed thickly. “I…” His eyes drifted shut. “I don’t want to talk about it,”

Qui-Gon sighed. “I know, but… I think maybe you should. I’m… I’m worried about you. Master Dooku is, too. I know sometimes he comes across as cold and unfeeling, but he cares a lot. He really does, I promise you. And I care too,”

Obi-Wan wilted, that old, familiar guilt coiling in the pit of his stomach. “You… you really shouldn’t. I’m okay,”

Qui-Gon frowned. “You know, Jedi aren’t supposed to lie,” he said, ever so gently.

“That’s okay,” Obi-Wan admitted. “I… don’t really think I’m going to end up being a Jedi, anyways…” His voice was quiet, almost imperceptibly so. He almost didn’t want Qui-Gon to hear him. There was so much shame inside of him. So many things that were wrong,”

Qui-Gon’s eyebrows shot up. “What?” he demanded. “Why? Obi, don’t say that. You’ve been dreaming of being a Jedi your whole life. You can’t just- you can’t just give up on it,”

“I know… I don’t want to give up on it,” Obi-Wan assured quickly, almost desperately. “I just… there’s so much inside of me that feels wrong. I’m so scared and angry all the time. I’m so afraid of losing- of losing you and… I don’t even know Master Dooku that well, but I don’t want to lose him either. I don’t want him to reject me,”

“Master Dooku won’t reject you. He really likes you. I think he’s really impressed by you. And I told you before, he cares a lot. He wants you here,” Qui-Gon said softly, using his freehand to maneuver the other kittens into Obi-Wan’s lap—if anybody needed extra kitten-comfort, it was Obi-Wan. “And I want you here too,” Qui-Gon said with a soft smile.

“I know,” Obi-Wan said, hunkering down and trying to focus on the kittens in his lap and not… “It’s not just that. Jedi aren’t supposed to be attached. But I can’t… I can’t help it. You’re my friend and Master Dooku has been so kind to me. If either of you were to… were to…” the word caught in his throat like cotton. For a moment, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“Die?” Qui-Gon prompted and Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut, trying to press himself against Qui-Gon as much as he could.

“ _I don’t know what I would do,”_ he whispered, his voice raw and full of pain.

“Obi-Wan… we’re not going anywhere, we’re not going to die,” Qui-Gon assured, wrapping his free arm around the smaller boy, holding him close.

“You don’t know that. Anybody could die. Anybody could die from anything. I-I was a General. I had to make choices. I had to tell people… to send them to their… I-I… I’ve seen people… I’ve seen people…I’ve seen people-“ His hands were shaking. All of him was shaking.

“Things are different now,” Qui-Gon assured.

“But what if they aren’t?” Obi-Wan whispered.

“There’s no war here, Obi-Wan. You’re not a soldier or a general anymore. You’re a diplomat, a peacekeeper. You won’t ever have to be a general ever again. All of that is gone. No more fighting or death or war. You’re safe here. No more war,”

“Not ever again?” Obi-Wan asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

“Not ever again,”

“Promise?”

Qui-Gon grinned, bright and shining and brilliant. “I promise,” he assured and Obi-Wan closed his eyes.

For a long time, except for the quiet meowing of the kittens, there was silence. After a minute, Qui-Gon released his hold on him and he felt the older padawan shift against him.

“Hey,” Qui-Gon said softly. “I want you to have something,”

Obi-Wan cracked and eye open and sat up just a little. “What is it?” he asked.

“Close your eyes and hold out your hand,” Qui-Gon instructed, and instantly, red flags went off in Obi-Wan’s head.

“No way,” he said.

Qui-Gon rolled his eyes. “It’s not something gross, I promise,”

Obi-Wan huffed and, deciding to trust his untrustworthy, prankster of a friend, closed his eyes and held out his hand. “It better not be,” he growled threateningly.

Something heavy was dropped in the palm of his hand. Obi-Wan opened his eyes and his heart stop. “No, no, I can’t except this,” he said, fingers curling around the river rock Qui-Gon had placed in his hand. “Master Dooku gave this to you. I know how much it means to you. It’s so special to you, I can’t take it from you,”

“Do you know why it’s so special?” Qui-Gon asked, refusing the rock and tipping his head to once side. “Because it’s got the Force. Do you feel how warm it is? It’s like a focal point—like the Force is constantly passing through it. I used to use it to help me focus during meditations,”

Obi-Wan bit his lip and once again tried to thrust the rock back into Qui-Gon’s hand. “Then surely I can’t take it, it’s too important,”

“But I want you to have it, Obi-Wan,” he said, wrapping his hands around Obi-Wan’s and carefully curling the copper haired boy’s freckled fingers around the special stone. “That way, you can always feel the Force, no matter where you are. You’ll have a part of me with you, even if we’re far apart. That way, you don’t ever have to feel alone,”

Slowly, Qui-Gon pulled his hands away and Obi-Wan held the stone close to his heart. “I’ll keep it forever,” he promised and threw his arms around Qui-Gon’s shoulders. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Qui-Gon held him tight and rested his cheek against the top of his head, smiling into his hair. “Of course,” he said. “But in exchange you can’t tell Master Dooku that I’m stealing food to feed a tooka,”

The kittens, still squirming, mewled as if in agreement, and Obi-Wan laughed. 


	3. Chapter 3

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_There are hands on him. Big hands—wrapped around Obi-Wan’s arms and shoulders and legs and throat. They force him to his knees in the salty mud beside the seawater river. Voices, loud and hard, demand information that his cotton-thick tongue cannot offer. Heavy hands, rough hands, fumble with the cloth around his eyes.The water below him is deep and churning, violent swells of stinging water lashing at the pointed white rocks, like the gnashing teeth of a greedy, angry creature that wants to swallow him whole._

_He knows what this torture is. He is unafraid. He was a Jedi, after all. He can hold his breath for a very long time._

_They demand information on Cerasi, on the Young, on his_ friends, _and he refuses to speak. Down goes his head into the water. He doesn’t anticipate the cold, nor the way his body reacts to the shock of the water. Against his own volition, his body taken over by warped evolution, he gasps. Burning saltwater pours into his mouth and nose, pooling in his lungs. His limbs fly out and the pull him up, just long enough to cough up all the water._

_Again, they demand information. Again, he has none to offer. Down he goes again. He anticipates the cold this time and holds his breath, but they are patient and wait for his body to betray him once more._

_Over and over the process repeats, until his lungs feel raw and every breath of blesses air burns like fire._

_His blurry, burning, bleeding eyes search for something the horizon for something to ground himself against the mounting panic. A voice somewhere in the back of his head—Qui-Gon’s, Master Dooku’s, his mindhealer’s, maybe his own—reminds him that he is safe. This is just a dream after all. Nothing more than a painful memory being parsed and sorted in his sleeping hours._

_They force him down into the cool water again. Armed with this knowledge, the water no longer burns. He is asleep, after all. He is body is not truly underwater. Safe in his bed, he is still breathing._

_They have taught him how to pull himself from slumber—he grounds himself and rises from his body. The dream dissipates. Slowly, he opens his eyes. The dark room around him is familiar and comforting._

_Except, he cannot move. Not a muscle. He is bound to his bed by some horrific, unseen force. He tries to shout for Qui-Gon or Master Dooku, but not even his lips will obey him._

_The pneumatic doors of his quarters swoosh open and a figure walks in, hulking and dark, with a Force-signature that burns red with fury. The silhouette vaguely reminds him of Senior Padawan Fisto, with a thousand headtails that sway and blow in the windless room like kelp under the sea._

_He feels a hand wrap around his throat and hears the monster, in a voice that switched between Qui-Gon’s and Master Dooku’s voices, speaking a language he cannot comprehend. Suddenly, there is pressure on his throat and the monster pushes him through his bed, down into an infinite ocean below his covers—dark and murky and deeper than he could ever hope to survive._

_Below him, monsters swim—bigger than he has ever seen before. His eyes catch glimpses of them only when lightning flashes above the surface, the monsters drawing nearer and nearer with every pulse of light. He cannot pry the hands off of his neck. He cannot breathe. He cannot-!_

Obi-Wan sits upright, the ragged scream caught halfway in his throat, dangling in his stomach, catching up against his gag reflex. His nose burns—his sinus pound with a tortured, salty pressure. His eyes sting. His mouth tastes like kelp. Why?

Ah, yes. It must be the tears slipping into his mouth, wide and gaping, twisted into a silent scream. He feels silly and stupid for crying, for feeling so frightened. So, he curls up in the corner of his bed (he had stopped sleeping with Qui-Gon for fear that his friend might grow tired of him) and tries to ignore the way his lungs aches.

However, the shadows cast against the wall are far too long for his liking. Fear is unbecoming of a Jedi knight, but luckily, he is not a Jedi knight and perhaps, even luckier, there is someone in the room with him who never fails to dispel the fear.

He slips out of his bed and the floor is cold against his bare toes. He crosses the room and stands over Qui-Gon’s bed for far longer than he ought to before he whispers—a sound that still feels far to loud in the dead of the night: “Qui-Gon? Are you awake?”

The other padawan crack an eye open. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need to. This is all the answer Obi-Wan needs.

“I... had that dream again,” the smaller of the two padawans admits. This is not an unfamiliar occurrence, yet still he runs his finger up and down his forearm, trying to ease the anxiety of asking for help. “Can I stay with you?” he asks. Then, feeling sheepish, he tacks on a hasty: “Just for tonight?”

Qui-Gon grunts and, for a moment, Obi-Wan fears he might be turned away. (He doesn’t yet understand that Qui-Gon would never dream of turning his brother away, no matter how early the hour.) Nevertheless, with a soft huff, the older boy obliges and holds up the blanket. Obi-Wan wastes no time in tucking himself beneath the heavy quilt.

Luckily for the both of them—Obi-Wan, who is afraid to initiate contact but would very much like to be held because he is frightened, and Qui-Gon, who is upset at the sudden loss of heat from opening up the blanket—Obi-Wan is very much like a hot water bottle, and Qui-Gon wastes no time in securing him in his arms.

Obi-Wan exhales and tucks his head beneath Qui-Gon chin, at last able to forget the tang of salt that plagues his memories.

-

Obi-Wan was everything Dooku could have wanted in a padawan: respectful, dignified, hardworking, and very quiet—perhaps a little too quiet. Obi-Wan was, so it had seemed for the first month or two of their training, the perfect padawan. However, boys will be boys and, when the shock and trauma of war began to wear off, it became aggressively apparent that Obi-Wan Kenobi was, in fact, just as much of a trouble maker as a certain Qui-Gon Jinn.

Dooku began forming the suspicion early on, when he returned from a meeting with the Council only to find their living quarters covered in muddy footprints and both boys fast asleep on the deck of their quarters—Obi-Wan’s preferred place to meditate, indicating that he had attempted to do so before Qui-Gon had, presumably, interrupted him—piled on top of each other like newborn tooka kits.

This suspicion only continued to gather evidence as he heard, one rainy afternoon, playful banter between his two soggy padawans, punctuated every once and a while by the soft mewling of _actual_ tooka kits:

_“I can’t believe you didn’t even tell me where you were going—I would’ve helped you,” Qui-Gon had complained. “I waited for you in the salle for an hour, Obi-Wan. A whole hours!”_

_“Oh, as if you’ve never made me wait before,” Obi-Wan has hissed, doing a much better job of concealing his voice. “Besides, this was more important! What did you want me to do? Just leave them? Look at how hard it’s raining! They would’ve drowned!”_

_“I was worried about you. I didn’t know where you were,” Qui-Gon had whined, sounding nothing short of absolutely pathetic._

_“Qui-Gon, I can take care of myself. You don’t always have to keep tabs on me,”_

_“It’s my job as a Padawan of the Order to help the helpless,” Qui-Gon had teased._

_“I am not helpless!” Oh, Dooku had practically heard Obi-Wan bristling._

_There had been a brief tick of silence—presumably, during which Qui-Gon had rolled his eyes. “Last time we went out to the Pond, you got stuck in the mud and didn’t want to pull yourself out because you didn’t want to put your hands on the ground,”_

_“The ground was muddy! I didn’t want to get my hands muddy!”_

_“You were already muddy!”_

_“You didn’t even help me out, anyways. You just watched, and then laughed when I slipped in all the way,”_

_“It was funny,”_

_“I could’ve been hurt!”_

_“You’re just being a baby because you don’t like getting dirty,”_

_“I don’t like getting dirty because I’m a civilized person who values personal hygiene, unlike some people who are perfectly content not bathing for a week!”_

_“What are you saying?”_

_“I’m saying, Qui-Gon, that you stink like a bantha,”_

_“Hey! You don’t even know what a bantha smells like!”_

_“I do so! Because I’m smelling one right now!”_

_“Just shut up and let me help you hide those kits before Master Dooku gets back. And you owe me for abandoning our training session!”_

_“Yeah, and you’re still owe me for not helping me get out of the mud!”_

_Back and forth their banter went, both padawans blissfully unaware that their master had been in the other room the entire time, trying to ignore the pleasant fondness that swelled in his chest—particularly when both boys realized they had neglected to retrieve the mother of the kits and, after tucking the mewling, squirming creatures away to nap on Qui-Gon’s big quilt, scrambled off to retrieve her._

Back then, Master Dooku had falsely assumed that Qui-Gon was the instigator of such antics, and that Obi-Wan was only helplessly trailing behind him. Now, however, as he watched Obi-Wan do Qui-Gon’s padawan braid—intertwining his own hair with Qui-Gon’s, all whilst wearing a strikingly mischievous smirk—that Master Yan Dooku realized that Obi-Wan Kenobi was, in fact, just as bad as Qui-Gon Jinn.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to ward off the beginnings of a headache, as he turned his attention back to the pot of hot cereal he was stirring for first-meal. _Braiding their hair together?_ Honestly. Obi-Wan was a clever boy. Sure he would realize that his idea of a “prank” was only bound to end badly?

Perhaps not.

“There, it’s done,” Dooku heard his younger padawan say, followed by his older padawan’s: “Thanks, Obi!”

And therein lay Obi-Wan’s hubris: his lack of forethought.

“What’cha making master?” Qui-Gon asked, bounding to his feet. Obi-Wan yelped as he was pulled to his feet and Qui-Gon cried out in pain as he was yanked backwards. Both boys ended up in a little heap on the floor, inevitably bickering about who’s fault the situation was.

Setting the pot aside, the Master strode over to his boys—who looked as if they were about three seconds away from getting into a physical altercation—and towered over them.

“Both of you, enough!” Dooku snapped, earned himself two pairs of wide, guilty eyes. “This is not appropriate conduct for Jedi knights,” he chided. “Honestly, both of you! Frankly, I have come to expect this sort of behavior for you, Qui-Gon,” he said sternly and the aforementioned padawan merely shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “But not from you Obi-Wan. I want an explanation for this behavior,”

Obi-Wan looked absolutely mortified, staring down at his intertwined fingers as he, no doubt, sought for an appropriate response to the solution. Wisely, he went with the truth (and Dooku couldn’t help but, once again, feel that insufferable swelling of affectionate pride at the honesty of his youngest.)

“I... I’m sorry, Master. I just- I guess I just thought it would be funny,” Obi-Wan whispered and his turned so red that Dooku, for a moment, worried it might catch fire.

At this response, Qui-Gon immediately forwent his previous anger and burst into peels of laughter. Obi-Wan’s eyes went wide and Dooku expected smaller of the two boys was about to curl in on himself and hide his reddened face—he had a tendency to react poorly to shame. However, he watched with mild fascination as his younger padawan did the exact opposite of his expectations: instead of curling in on himself, he puffed out his chest, just a little, and smiled, apparently pleased to have successfully made his brother laugh.

The pre-prepared tirade died on Dooku’s lips. There was that surge of pride again—pleased that Qui-Gon had been so quick and willing to forgive and laugh. That sensation was immediately followed by the strangest sense of relief: Obi-Wan was coming out of his shell. There had been a very real part of Dooku that had worried that the atrocities of Melida/Daan had damaged Obi-Wan’s innocence beyond repair. However, the Master was quietly delighted to learn that, no, there was still some childishness left in the boy.

“Menaces, both of you,” he sighed in exasperation.

Qui-Gon, easily picking up on the affection in his Master’s voice, grinned. Obi-Wan, still a little unsure of his place in his Master’s heart, recoiled, looking urgently at Qui-Gon (an action made somewhat difficult by their conjoined braid) for guidance. However, upon seeing his older brother’s smile—confident in their Master’s love—Obi-Wan too relaxed and allowed himself to smile.

They were attached to each other, Dooku realized in a singular, thundering thought that stole the air from his lungs. And, while he didn’t completely subscribe to the beliefs of the Council, he still held his reservations about such a bond. They were walking a very fine line together—a very dangerous line.

“Hey, stop moving, I can’t get it undone!” Qui-Gon said, snapping Dooku out of his reverie.

“I’m moving so I can get a better look at it!” Obi-Wan huffed.

“You don’t need to look at it, I’m the only one who needs to look at it because I’m the one trying to undo it, so stop moving your kriffing head!”

“Boys, enough,” Dooku said sternly, kneeling down beside them and gently pried Qui-Gon’s fingers away from the tangled knot of hair to undo it himself. Once both boys were free, he gripped the tops of their heads, mussing up Obi-Wan’s neatly done hair, which earned a protest from the smaller padawan. (Qui-Gon, who still had yet to comb out his bedhead, remained relatively unfazed.

“Behave,” he said sternly but not unkindly and, just to get another rise out of his youngest, ruffled his boys’ hair with a little more force.

“Stop! Now I have to redo my nerf tail!” Obi-Wan complained, small hands scrabbling up to tug out the band in his hair.

“Nerfherder,” Qui-Gon snickered, seemingly unable to help himself.

Dooku, growing more and more exasperated, gripped the back of Qui-Gon’s neck. “Behave or there will be no first-meal for you, my young student,” he warned, releasing Qui-Gon’s neck and tugging on the ever lengthening, undone strand of hair that was his padawan braid.

Which reminded Dooku that his oldest would soon be picking a speciality, and that he would soon be needing to speak with the quartermaster about getting the appropriate beads. ....Which also reminded him that he needed to speak to the quartermaster about getting Obi-Wan another cloak (as he had, once again, lost the two he owned) and a new set of robes, as he’d just hit a growth spurt and had been complaining that his pants were too short.

“And you,” Dooku told his rapidly-growing youngest, tugging on the undone padawan braid. “Don’t instigate your brother and don’t encourage him. I had mistakenly believed that you were incapable of such mischief, but I see now that I am wrong,”

Obi-Wan ducked his head and whispered a quiet, “Yes Master,” which made Dooku feel a little guilty about frightening his youngest, who’s trust was still fragile.

“Obi-Wan, you aren’t in trouble. I only feel that I should remind you,” Dooku assured evenly, and mussed the smaller boy’s coppery hair up one last time before releasing them both. “Both of you, eat up. Clearly, if you both have the energy for such tomfoolery, I’m not working you hard enough. Katas until mid-meal it is, then,”

As his boys groaned a and groused, scrambling off to fetch their plates, Dooku realized that he, too, was attached to the boys, his bond with them running deeper than he had anticipated.

Surely, he thought, this would not end well.

-

The young Jedi Master watched, from the safety of the doorway, as his youngest padawan writhed in pain, then sat up, gasping for air.

_“I had hoped Ataru would help him work through his anger but he will not touch it, Jo,” Dooku complained to his oldest friend. “It is buried so deeply within him that he refuses to even acknowledge that it’s there. He burns with resentment—and rightly so, in my opinion—but it lies buried so deeply beneath fear and shame that it cannot be touched and I fear, if he does not address it, it will consume him from the inside out,”_

_Jocasta Nu considered the Master for a moment, and slipped out from behind her desk. She took his hands and lead him to a pair of raised, sitting down beside him. “Take a deep breath and exhale, Yan,” she chided softly. “You’re going to give yourself a migraine,”_

_“I’ve already given myself a migraine,” Dooku grumbled. “The boy is suffering and I don’t know how to help him,” he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, but Jocasta caught his hand and held it tight._

_“As parents, we cannot protect our children from everything,” she said softly, running a thumb over his knuckles as she twisted away to watched as her own padawan happily lead an elder Jedi deep into the archives. “Suffering is a part of life,”_

_“We are not parents,” Dooku huffed and Jocasta merely chuckled._

_“Are we not? The bond is the same. Our role is the same. We protect and nurture, we teach and guide, and someday, we let go,”_

_“The Council would-“ But Dooku was cut off by the Archivist’s chuckling._

_“Somehow I don’t believe you are terribly concerned with the thoughts of the Council, Yan,” she observed and Dooku couldn’t help but smile._

_“Perhaps not,” he admitted._

_“What is it that he fears?” Jocasta asked, shifting the subject._

_“Rejection. Abandonment. I sense he feels that he is too much, that he feels he must hide himself, shroud himself, or risk expulsion from the lives of those he cares for. Jo, what he seeks is attachment. I cannot offer him that,”_

_Jocasta considered this for a moment before shaking her head. “Why?” she asked._

_“Because it is forbidden,” Dooku huffed and once again, Jocasta chuckled._

_“According to the Council, perhaps. But I fail to believe that you would be so strict to adhere to the letter of the law. What he seeks, Yan, is not attachment, but security,” the Archivist released the Jedi Master’s hand and rose to her feet. “You wish to ease his suffering? Show him that you are secure, that you will not be leaving him anytime soon,”_

“Padawan,” Dooku said softly, and Obi-Wan’s bright eyes snapped in his direction, wide and full of fear. “At ease, young one. Relax,” the Master whispered, so as not to wake his sleeping eldest.

When Obi-Wan didn’t respond, Dooku sighed and crossed the room, somewhat trepidatiously. “May I sit with you?” he asked.

Obi-Wan swallowed thickly, perhaps trying to discern whether or not the image before him was real or dreamed. However, after a moment, the boy nodded and Dooku sat beside him.

“Did I wake you?” Obi-Wan asked, sounding somewhat urgent.

“No,” Dooku assured, lying. “I was already up. I was having a bit of trouble sleeping,”

Obi-Wan nodded but said nothing else, his fingers tightening around the fringes of his wool blanket.

“You we’re having a nightmare,” Dooku observed and Obi-Wan ducked his eyes.

“It’s nothing, Master. I’m alright,” Obi-Wan whispered.

Dooku nodded, somewhat curtly. “Would you like to discuss it?”

“No thank you, Master,”

Dooku sighed. Patience had never been his strong suit, but now especially, he couldn’t let it run thin.

“How about a cup of tea and a snack, then?” Dooku requested and was somewhat satisfied when he watched Obi-Wan perk up a little.

“Would that be alright?” Obi-Wan asked and Dooku nodded.

“I think so,”

Obi-Wan took a moment to consider this, then nodded, slowly. “Alright,” he agreed and carefully climbed out of bed.

The Jedi Master could feel, across their bond, a swelling urge building up inside of his padawan, a desire to speak, to be understood, warring alongside an equally swelling fear to remain silent, not to overwhelm.

Dooku put a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder and felt some of the fear melt away. The boy leaned into the touch, ever so slightly, and Dooku once again felt that grappling need for attachment— _security—_ like the tiny hands of a toddler reaching out for something to hold onto.

The older master still held some reservations about the nature of such attachments. However, if his padawan needed security in their relationship, he could offer that much.

“Come, padawan. I have some biscuits we can share,”


End file.
